


Non Compos Mentis

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asylum, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, More angst, Suicidal References, mental hopsital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9099964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: Com-pos men-tis: adjective; having full control of one’s mind; sane.John had planned to propose to Mary that night, but nothing ever goes as planned.One mistake in identity sends John to a rehabilitation center...or is it? Angst ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this beautiful fanart by Purrlockholmes :)
> 
> http://purrlockholmes.tumblr.com/post/147557821929/please-p-please-you-have-to-believe-me-sherlock

**CHAPTER 1**

 

John remembered everything that happened that night. His sore fists didn’t let him forget it for one thing, let alone allow him to soothe his guilt and embarrassment. He remembered seeing Mary coming towards him, sitting down, smiling innocently and carefree. He remembered hearing _his_ voice right before seeing him—and yes, he saw him!

John remembered what he did to Sherlock—no, to the poor waiter. He remembered actually seeing the waiter—just a glimpse—before being shoved into a police car, still yelling as if it was Sherlock. John remembered seeing just how _not_ uncanny the waiter was; he only had prominent cheekbones and curly hair to show for it. That had been all to set John off, and end him up here in a cell at Scotland Yard for the rest of the night.

He hadn’t slept at all, but must have started to doze off, because he was startled when his cell door opened early the next morning. John looked up to see Mary and Mycroft on the other side, refraining from stepping in or out of the way. John stood up and walked up to the door, but they didn’t budge.

John faltered. “Am I not allowed to leave?”

He looked at Mary. She avoided his gaze by looking at Mycroft. John looked at him.

“What are _you_ even doing here?” John asked. He looked at Mary again, and noticed she looked a bit sad, or bothered about something. She glanced at him, and didn’t look away.

“Mary?” John’s voice hitched slightly. He cleared his throat to get himself together. “What is it?”

“John…we, Mycroft and I, have decided not to let you go home just yet.”

“What—where I else do—is the waiter pressing charges?”

“No, he isn’t—” Mary started.

“Then why—”

“John,” Mycroft interrupted. “You are being transferred to the Avalon Gardens Rehabilitation Asylum.”

“It’s not an asylum anymore,” Mary clarified. “They just haven’t changed their name.”

John gaped at them. “A hospital? I’m not crazy—”

“It’s been decided, John,” Mycroft said. “I am sorry it has to come to this, but I can assure it, it is temporary. I’m sure you won’t make it difficult.”

John stared at Mycroft, who stared back. John clenched his jaw angrily.

“Mycroft—,”

“You’ll be transferred today,” Mycroft said as he started walking away. Mary started to follow him, as did John. Another man stepped between him and the other two, and took John by the arm somewhat roughly.

“This way, Mr. Watson,” the man said.

“Hey—it’s Doctor Watson, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“John!” Mary paused and turned around to face him. “I’m the one who committed you, Mycroft just arranged it. It’ll only be six weeks, at most. And if it really makes things worse, I can get you out.”

She looked at him confidently, and John slowly nodded, however reluctantly.

“It was just a mistake…” John trailed off.

“I know,” she said. Mary caressed his cheek lightly and then kissed him. The touch was cold, and didn’t settle John’s nerves. “I’ll visit you as much as I can.”

The man holding John proceeded to lead him outside. John twisted out of his grasp and climbed into the car, feeling everything was out of his control now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep an eye on the tags
> 
> warning: suicidal references

**CHAPTER 2**

John sat still in the uncomfortable plastic chair. His new therapist, Dr. Smith, was in front of him, keeping his eyes on John. It had been almost an hour already, and like every session John had had in the past two weeks at this place, he remained quiet.

This time though, it seemed Dr. Smith was keen on getting John to say something, as he asked a question nearly every five minutes.

“Have you seen Sherlock recently?” the psychiatrist asked.

John flickered his eyes to the man before blinking and returning his gaze to the clock above him. He refused to respond. A minute later, the hour was up, and John quickly stood and left the room.

He made his way down the hallway, avoiding the other patients and staff with ease, and reached his room. Fortunately, despite everything else, John didn’t have to share a room, and as he closed the door behind him, he exhaled slowly, urging himself to relax.

His room was small, with a bed in the left corner against the wall, a small table beside it, a sturdy locked window in front of the door, and a small bathroom on the right. It was bland and too much like the bedsit John had rented all those years ago, before he met Sherlock. It bothered him, to say the least.

Unfortunately, as a routine now, John made his way to the bed and lied down. There wasn’t a desk or anything, and he didn’t have his computer or even his own books. The books they have weren’t in tolerable condition; either covered up with dried, bodily fluids or paranoia markings, or missed half the pages. John lay still instead, and stared up at the wall, knowing what was coming with dread just as it did.

“John,” came the whisper.

John squeezed his eyes shut, breathed deeply through his nose, and then sat up on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t handle hearing Sherlock’s voice today; and after hearing it every time after his therapy session in the past week, he was afraid he might crack. John wondered why he was hearing voices now, since before the incident at the restaurant, he hadn’t heard any. In fact, he thought he was improving. He only visited Sherlock’s grave once in a while besides on the anniversary, and he was with Mary now.

Mary had only visited three times in the past two weeks. They were long visits, but spread out. They felt more like odd dates and updates about John’s current condition. She didn’t talk about trying to get him out sooner except for assuring him that she was trying. It almost seemed like she avoided that topic all together, yet she always brought it up the minute she arrived.

“John…” the voice was pained this time, and just barely above a whisper. It surrounded John, and no matter how much he squeezed his eyes, hummed to himself, and walked around the room, it wouldn’t go away. There were five-second intervals some days, and other days it was a constant, “John, John, John, John!”

John yelled out and slammed his fist against the wall, in the same area he had hit before. It shook beneath his fist, but didn’t budge…yet. He clenched his fist and stalked to the window. It was raining hard, shattering against the window from the harsh wind. Raindrops slid down the glass, racing one another; John stared at them for a moment, finding peace and pause. A flash of lightening startled him out of focus. He looked further outside; surrounding the building were green lawns stretching out far and bordering a gravel road that twisted on into the shadows of the trees. There were no other buildings in sight. There were no other people outside either, just emptiness.

Swiftly, a figure moved past the window in a gliding motion. John flinched backwards and took many steps away from the window. For another second or two, he saw Sherlock looking back at him through the window, looking sad.

John blinked, but the image wouldn’t go away. He clenched his fists and started to turn around to leave the room, when he paused. He looked back; the image was still there, solid yet not in arms reach. John turned on his heel and sped out the room. He knew he shouldn’t go outside in his state; what people would think would only lengthen his stay and make it difficult, but John was sure he saw Sherlock.

He ran outside, ignoring the staff protesting and following him out. He was quickly drenched from the rain, but he ignored it and continued to walk quickly around towards his window. He wasn’t sure which one was his, but he thought he would know once he saw Sherlock.

A couple of nurses followed him, but didn’t rush him to come back. They followed him closely; John ignored their presence and looked around, turning his head back and forth and then walking in circles, searching for Sherlock. But he wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t anywhere.

John sighed shakily and stopped looking around. A nurse wrapped her arm around John and slowly started to lead him back inside the hospital.

“Come on, Mr. Watson. It’s took cold out for a walk,” she said, her Irish accent strong despite her gentle wording.

“Doctor,” John protested. “It’s doctor.” He let her lead him though, and didn’t protest as they led him to his room and sat with him for the remainder of the day.

***       ****

John tapped the armrest of the chair. It was comfier than the plastic one he had sat in before. He was in the same room though, as he was every other day, sitting in front of Dr. Smith, not talking.

It was all getting tedious. John didn’t have anyone to talk to, and the ones who wanted him to talk, _he_ didn’t want to talk. Mary hadn’t visited in the past week, and it had been five weeks since he had been committed. Those weeks had blurred together so fast, John had found himself checking the calendar every day just to keep himself focused on his release.

John supposedly had one week left though. But by the look of Dr. Smith’s solemn face, that wasn’t the news John was getting.

“You haven’t said anything in these sessions, John. Is there anything you want to say today?”

John perked up, wanting nothing more than to curse the man and everyone keeping him here. Instead, he said, “When am I getting released?”

Dr. Smith fidgeted slightly. “Not for at least four more weeks.”

John’s eyes widened. “I-I thought I was only hear for six weeks—,”

“Your fiancé who committed you signed you up for another month. She felt like you weren’t improving, and she had access to your status as well. She knows you haven’t been talking.”

John scoffed. “I am now. And, she’s not my fiancé.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have more to get through, John.”

John rolled his eyes.

Dr. Smith continued. “You’re still grieving,” he stated blatantly.

John scoffed again. “Really? That obvious?”

“Do you think so?”

John was agitated more than usual and looked at the psychiatrist harshly. “I’m fucking grieving then. My best friend killed himself in front of me. All right?”

“He died two years ago—,”

“Two and a half,” John corrected.

Dr. Smith looked at him closely. “There is a difference between grieving and missing someone. You sound sure of yourself.”

“It’s my fucking business what I’m feeling,” John replied. He unraveled his clenched fists and glanced out the window. It was a clear day, and there was no sign of Sherlock. There hadn’t been since that day in the rain, just voices—loud, clear voices. John fidgeted and looked away from the window.

“How often did you visit your friend’s grave?”

John shrugged. “A normal amount.”

“When was the last time?”

“Two months ago.”

“Were you alone?”

John shook his head. “No. No, I was with Mary.”

“Was that the first time she joined you?”

“Yes.”

“Would it have been the last?”

“Probably not. She seemed like she wanted to go from then on. Worried about me…or something.”

“And did you talk to her about it?” Dr. Smith asked. “Do you think you went too often for just a friend?”

John bristled at that and nearly stood up. He raised his voice though, and flared his nostrils.

“Sherlock was my best friend, he was…everything to me—,”

“More than a friend?” Dr. Smith’s tone hitched slightly, and John could tell what he really was asking. He stood up roughly and headed out the door, preparing to slam it.

“Mr. Watson—,” Dr. Smith called out as he followed him. “Calm down—,”

“It’s DOCTOR Watson!” John bellowed. He turned on his feet, ignored the looks from other patients and staff, and reached the receptionist desk by the front. He stalked past her and tried to open the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. They had kept them locked ever since the rain incident.

“Open the damn doors!” John yelled to the woman. She stood up quickly and stepped away, calling down the hall for help. John rushed to the desk and began pushing things out of the way, searching for the keys.

“I have to get out of here!” he yelled aloud, not directing it to anyone. A tall nurse stepped behind him and took John’s arms away from the desk, pinning them behind his back.

“Come on, sir, back to your room,” he said. John squirmed but was manhandled down the hall. He twisted out of the grasp and raised his hands up as he limped down the hall.

“All right, all right,” he muttered. He made it to his room; the nurse stayed there, crossing his arms and looking defiant in the small room. John ignored him and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The nurse stepped forward and prevented the door from closing.

John glared at him, but then softened his expression and lowered his gaze.

“There’s nothing in here I can use,” John said bluntly. The nurse looked inside the bathroom, nodded, and then let John close the door.

Alone, John placed his hands on the edges of the sink and breathed deeply, slowly through the nose and then out the mouth. He wanted to get out of this place badly, but couldn’t do it by himself. He wondered if Mycroft would do something, but he hadn’t heard of him since he was first committed. The days were blending in and whatever anger management medication they were giving him was not helping. He was sleep deprived, yet didn’t even have hallucinations or nightmares when he did sleep. He only heard Sherlock right after his therapy session, or in the morning the next day.

John inhaled sharply and ran his hands through his hair, pulling slightly.

_God, I’m going crazy, aren’t I? Make it stop, just make this stop…_

_John._

“John.”

John snapped his head up and gasped. The room was empty though. Sherlock wasn’t there. John breathed slowly and looked down at the sink. He turned the water on and splashed his face. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them before opening to look at himself fin the mirror. Sherlock looked back.

John yelped and stepped back. He stared at the reflection and felt a surge of anger overcome him. Ignoring the concerned calls on the other side of the door, John raised his fist and slammed it into the mirror. again and again. It shattered the third time, and then fell apart into the sink and onto the floor, stained with blood.

The door barged open and John was pulled out before he could throw another punch. His fist stung with cuts but he barely noticed it as he was dragged away out of his room. He was pulled into the hallway and nearly thrown onto a stretcher. John cried out and cursed them, but no one budged. They fastened his wrists securely with cloth handcuffs, and then strapped a belt over his shins, hips, and chest. They wheeled the stretcher down the hall and into an empty room. John squirmed against the restraints, but was loosing clarity fast. He vaguely remembered a needle prick him just before he had been restrained, and was just now feeling the effect.

John stared at up at the white, plain ceiling as a man entered his vision.

“Hello, Mr. Watson. I’m Dr. Moran. You’ve been having hallucinations, right?”

“Hmm…” John’s tongue felt funny and he could barely form a coherent word. “Doctor…” he muttered.

“It’ll be all right. I’m going to give you something to help with the hallucinations, all right, Mr. Watson?”

John squirmed weakly against the cot. “Hmm…doctor…

…Doctor…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments get the words flowing :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a very short chapter with little angst but suspense too I guess. Enjoy :)
> 
> (And oh my god The Six Thatchers, wow!)

**CHAPTER 3**

 

The walls of this room were completely bare and a horrible white hue. At least in his old room, there was a window. John turned his head to the door. There was a door, but there wasn’t a window on it; it was just a plain door with what looked like at least two locks on it.

He fidgeted on the cot. His arms were strapped across his chest as his body was constrained in a straight jacket. John fumed and called out, but there was no answer.

John had no idea how much time went by, or if he had just fallen asleep again. The next thing he knew was that he wasn’t alone anymore. Mary was beside him, stroking his forehead.

She smiled as John opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

John cleared his throat and furrowed his eyebrows.

“When will I be released?” he asked.

Mary frowned.

“I’m afraid not for some time, John. The doctors are concerned—.”

“I’m doing better,” John insisted. “I’m trying.”

“Have you seen Sherlock?”

John shook his head.

“No, I haven’t.”

Mary stood up and gathered her things.

John began to panic.

“Don’t leave yet, I just—.”

“You’ve been seeing him haven’t you? In your sleep, you say his name.”

John shook his head rapidly. He couldn’t remember his dreams; he couldn’t even remember why he was in this locked room.

“Get some rest, John. You’ll feel better soon.” Mary slowly began to walk away. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

John sat up on the bed and leaned forward, straining his arms and neck.

“No, wait, Mary, please, there must be something—,”

Mary looked down and headed to the door. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Mary—MARY!!” John twisted violently against the jacket. He moved side to side several times, when suddenly pain erupted in his left shoulder and he twisted off the cot, falling backwards and landing on his back.

John screamed out in pain. Mary gasped and was pushed aside as a few staff members rushed in and surrounded John. John couldn’t move his shoulder and assumed he must have dislocated it. He started to move more in the jacket, but didn’t get a chance to release the sleeves completely as a nurse stuck a needle through his neck. Blackness swarmed his vision and then completely.

John awoke some hours later in the same room. His arm was in his sling while his uninjured arm was softly handcuffed to the railing, as were his feet and a strap lied over his hips.

John silently began to cry. He felt a wave of emotion crash into him, and the empty, silent room increased the loneliness. He eventually fell asleep. His dreams were tormented with pain. He saw Sherlock, but failed to reach him, and felt something pin his arms to his abdomen and chest. More arms grabbed at him until he opened his eyes and screamed.

John breathed heavily and looked at the person touching him. The nurse was talking and handed John a couple of pills.

“Take this. You’ll feel better.”

John did without hesitation.

*            *            *

The next morning, John sat in the lounge on the sofa, and looked out the window. He felt oddly calm and at ease. People moved around him as if he was invisible, but he didn’t mind.

Mary visited him just before noon. She sat next to him and made small talk, but John couldn’t follow along. He recognized some phrases and updates about her life, but nothing sounded interesting.

“Have you seen Sherlock?” she asked hesitantly.

John furrowed his eyebrows.

“N-no.”

“Not in dreams or hallucinations?”

John shook his head and clenched his jaw.

“Sherlock’s dead,” John said. “Why would I see him?”

Mary relaxed beside him and squeezed his hand assuringly.

“I’ll visit you tomorrow, how’s that sound?”

“Good,” John replied shortly.

Mary stood up and left. John watched her go, and caught her reflection in a mirror as she passed by. She was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be more scenes like the fanart, trust me ;)  
> it's only going to get worse! much like season 4 ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late... hope you enjoy! This had intended to be a short fic, so the angst is quick but there.

**CHAPTER 4**

 

John furrowed his eyebrows and felt uneasy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Sherlock, but supposed he had hallucinated him enough to end up here. He couldn’t remember why exactly, nor could he fathom why Mary had smiled on her way out.

The days went by in a blur, in which John noticed but not with enough concern to question anyone. He followed orders, took his medication, and ignored the inkling feeling he had that something was wrong, and that he missed Sherlock. If any of the doctors or nurses knew he missed his hallucination, they would put him on more medication, and John didn’t want to loose himself, whatever remained. He was sure of that.

A nurse came up to him one morning and handed him his first dose of medication. He didn’t look familiar, and his nametag said Billy. John figured he was new.

He handed John the cup of medication, and then dropped the tray suddenly. John jerked away and took the medication from him. The man knelt down, picked up the tray, and then uttered, “don’t take it.” He left without another glance. John looked at him oddly as he walked away, and then looked at his medication. He placed the pills in his hand and popped them into his mouth, only to hide them under his tongue. He had always been obedient with his medication that no one checked to make sure he had swallowed it. He grabbed a tissue from the table and quickly spat them out and tossed the tissue away before anyone came closer.

John felt a little bit more like himself by the afternoon; something he hadn’t really noticed was gone. He missed Sherlock, but it was a natural feeling, and more like he missed him because he was dead, not because he was a hallucination John had been holding onto for sanity.

But by the evening, John was caught off guard by stomach cramps and a rising fever. He was lying in his bed, curling in on himself, unaware of people talking around him, trying to move him.

He heard voices, and then he heard Sherlock’s the loudest, as if it was coming from a speaker. He lashed out at anyone who touched him, and then to his horror, felt the straps of a straightjacket being placed over his chest.

John tried to move out of their grasp, and he tossed and turned but he was suddenly feeling incredibly weak, and tried to breathe, but couldn’t. John panicked, and tried to inhale but the constriction over his chest overcome him, and his vision went black from the lack of air. He vaguely heard Sherlock whisper his name before he succumbed completely.

*            *            *

John came to on the sofa, sitting up but with his head hanging sideways on his shoulder. He blinked heavily and tried to focus, but his surroundings were blurry. There were a few patients out and about, and medical staff close by. One came up to him and was holding a cup of pills.

“Open up,” she said.

John kept his mouth shut and shook his head. He looked around for the new guy, Billy, and spotted him by the front desk, looking at John with concern.

“You can’t do it yourself,” the woman said.

John slowly managed to focus more, and noticed he was still in the straight jacket. He tried to toss and turn, but the jacket didn’t budge.

The woman tapped her foot impatiently, and looked towards the others. John glanced at Billy and saw him on the phone as another nurse came up to him. The larger nurse forced John’s neck back by placing his forearm against the upper part of his chest. John squirmed and cried out. The other patients ignored him.

“N-no—!”

“You’ll feel better,” the woman said. John held his mouth shut, but then the man pinched his nose. John held his breath for as long as he could, but the moment he gasped for air, the man held his jaw hard and kept it open. The woman shoved the two pills down John’s throat, deep enough he nearly choked. The man closed his mouth and kept it closed, tightly holding by the jaw. John gagged up the pills us much he could and tried to squirm out of the grasp, when suddenly, the front doors opened and a group of people stormed into the building.

Surprised, the man’s grip on John slackened and John managed to pull away. He coughed up the pills and tried to catch his breath. People in black suits, some of them armed, gathered around the room and directed the staff to one side of the room, and placed the patients in the sitting room. John leaned back against the sofa, breathing deeply and confused with what was happening. He closed his eyes, begging for some peace in this hellhole.

“John?”

John flinched from the sound of the voice, and closed his eyes. Hands touched him, tracing his shoulders and down the jacket. The hands unattached the straps, and John’s arms slackened from the strain. He sighed contently and peaked his eyes open.

Sherlock was facing him, his face nearly touching John’s. Everyone around them seemed to fade, and bright lights illuminated Sherlock’s head. _The clouds must have been parting,_ John thought.

He blinked, and was surprised to still see Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at him, and caressed his cheek. John blinked again, and then gasped.

“Sherlock?”

“Obviously.”

“How did you—how—?”

“I can explain later. Let’s get you home.”

Sherlock helped John stand up, and although he felt weak, John managed to keep his balance. Sherlock took the jacket off of him, and then placed his own coat over John’s shoulders. John could smell Sherlock clearly, triggering his memories and that Sherlock was supposed to be dead, but wasn’t. John blinked, but Sherlock was still there. He wanted to close his eyes to see if this was really true, but some part of John was afraid to do so. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, followed him closely as he was led outside.

Cars packed the driveway, and Sherlock led him to an empty one. John sat inside and Sherlock followed, closed the door, and then they were driving away. Sherlock was oddly silent, and John started to fear he was in a dream, or dead.

The ride was quiet and tense; the car pulled up to Baker Street, and John followed Sherlock out. It wasn’t until they walked into the flat, that John realized he was still wearing the hospital clothes. He hovered hesitantly around the room, and looked at Sherlock.

“Is this a dream?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all, John. I can get you some pajamas if you’d like to change.”

“Er, yeah, sure.” John watched him go to his room, and return a short time later with an old t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. He handed them to John without a word, and then headed over to his chair. John changed in the bathroom, and returned. He hovered by his chair, looked around once more, and it was all starting to feel real. The shock was wearing off, and instead of confusion setting in, he became angry.

“Where have you been?” John demanded hoarsely.

Sherlock’s lips twitched a promising grin, and leaned into his chair with a sigh.

“You should sit down.”

John paused, sat down, and then listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are gold, and I am Smaug :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late and very short. Real life got in the way. Please leave comments. They do help.

**Chapter 5**

John couldn’t think of anything to say. He was overwhelmed—the sitting room around him faded, and when his vision focused, he was lying down, and Sherlock’s face peered over him, contorted with concern.

“Sherlock?” John blinked. He glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder and saw that he was in Sherlock’s room, lying on his bed. “You’re really—you really are alive?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed firmly.

“And Mary?”

“She worked with Moriarty. With Moran, the so-called doctor at the hospital.”

John breathed heavily and leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand over his head and closed his eyes briefly.

“You all right?” Sherlock asked.

John exhaled deeply again and shrugged, lowering his gaze to the floor.

“I’m not sure. It all seems to be happening so fast. You were dead to me this morning.”

John looked up just as Sherlock flinched.

“I didn’t mean—I—,”

“No, don’t be sorry. I am. Deeply, John. It was true as of this morning. But I am alive.”

“I’m almost scared to wake up and all this will be some kind of dream.”

Sherlock stood up and knelt in front of John. Their close proximity shocked him for a moment, and he can almost feel Sherlock’s breath mingle with his.

“John…” Sherlock voice was deeper and his eyes were glistening slightly. His chin trembled slightly, and he moved his hand up slowly before resting on top of John’s.

“I’ve missed you…” he started.

John felt an overwhelming sense of relief and nearly lunged at Sherlock, almost knocking him over as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Sherlock returned the embrace, and they sat like that, with Sherlock on his knees and John leaning out of the chair. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s temple, startling John. John leaned slightly back and looked at Sherlock, their noses almost touching.

John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s with the barest hint of pressure. He pulled away, feeling lightheaded, but grinned slightly. Sherlock grinned back, and continued to hold John in his arms. Niether of them needed to say anything. They had the rest of their lives for talking. This was enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> comments make my world go round :)
> 
>  
> 
> this fic was inspired by this amazing fanart :) http://purrlockholmes.tumblr.com/post/147557821929/please-p-please-you-have-to-believe-me-sherlock


End file.
